


What Silent Love Hath Writ

by satb31



Series: 1,000 Follower Giveaway Fics [10]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Love Triangles, M/M, References to Shakespeare, Shakespeare Quotations, Shakespearean Sonnets, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1925643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly asks Prouvaire to teach him Shakespeare in order to court Combeferre — with unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Silent Love Hath Writ

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Sonnet 23, which is also the sonnet Joly recites.
> 
> There was actually a company of English actors, including some of the greatest actors of the day, who performed Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, King Lear, and Othello at the Odéon Theatre in Paris in 1827 and 1828. These performances sparked an interest in Shakespeare among many Romantics, most notably Berlioz. Hugo himself attended the performances as well.
> 
> All historical errors are my own.

The doeskin trousers did not work.

It was not the fault of the wearer — after all, the close fit suited Joly’s lean frame perfectly, or at least that is what Bahorel confided after accompanying him to purchase said trousers. But when Joly followed his friends’ advice and got on his knees in an attempt to please his beloved Musichetta, she merely laughed at him. “Oh, Monsieur Joly,” she said sprightly. “Your efforts are touching — but I believe we both know your interests lie elsewhere.”

Joly gazed up at her, his face contorted with confusion. “I do not know what you mean, Mademoiselle,” he said innocently, his eyes searching her face for meaning.

Musichetta took him by the hands and lifted him to his feet, kissing him on the cheek. “Monsieur, at first I attributed your lack of interest in satisfying me to the general malaise that infects men your age. But when I noticed that Monsieur Bossuet does not suffer from the same problem, it made me wonder. The way you make love to me — it leads me to believe you wish to be with another. And not of the female persuasion, either,” she added, cupping his face lightly.

Joly nodded sagely and looked away, knowing that his mistress was wise beyond her years. He took his leave of her with nary a word, bestowing kisses on her small, pale hands, and returned to his rooms, where he poured himself some wine and sank into a chair, still in his expensive — and wasted — trousers.

Musichetta had given voice to the thoughts he had pushed to the back of his mind for years.

But they could not dwell in the background any longer.

**

Musichetta’s words weighed heavily on Joly for almost a fortnight. He found himself thinking about it during his lectures, or as he worked on his dissections with his colleague Combeferre. He was desperate to speak of it to someone else, but when Combeferre noticed his preoccupation and inquired about it, he shook his head vigorously.

"It is nothing," he quickly assured his beloved friend. "Just a mild illness — I am certain I will recover quickly."

Combeferre nodded, not blinking an eye at the young hypochondriac’s uncharacteristically optimistic attitude toward his future health. “Sometimes it just takes time to heal,” he said, taking Joly’s hand.

At his touch Joly felt suddenly flush with a fever.

He had only ever thought of Combeferre as a study partner and dinner companion — a friend, most certainly, and a good one. But Joly had always been particularly drawn to him — to his sharp wit, his broad curiosity about the world, his eyes that were both fire and ice simultaneously — and they shared a close bond, born of their common experiences in medical school.

In that moment, with Combeferre holding his hand, Joly wondered if his attraction went beyond those bonds of friendship.

And in the weeks that followed, through many a sleepless night, he could not stop himself from wondering.

**

Exhausted and unable to hold it in any longer, he decided to mention it to his compatriots in inebriation — Grantaire and Bossuet — neither of whom expressed surprise at Musichetta’s observations.

"I wondered when you were going to figure that out," Grantaire said with a grin, slapping him on the back.

"As if you are one to talk," Bossuet teased. "There are a great many things you have not yet figured out yourself," he said, nodding his head to indicate the blond man who was sitting across the room — and earning himself a punch in the arm from Grantaire. "But now our dear Joly just needs to seek a gentleman with whom he may share his love."

"Oh, I believe he already has one in mind," Grantaire said with a knowing chuckle.

It took a moment for Bossuet to discern to whom Grantaire was referring. “The one he plays doctor with?” he said, the realization causing his eyes to dance with delight.

"Of course," Grantaire scoffed. "He speaks of him so frequently, and with the way he speaks of him, I expect him to one day walk on water."

As his friends conversed, Joly’s face was getting redder and redder. “Am I that obvious?” he finally asked.

"Yes," Grantaire and Bossuet answered in unison, and Bossuet added, "Musichetta and I used to have a standing wager as to how long it would take you to mention him in conversation."

Joly buried his head in his hands. “But here is the rub — there is no way Combeferre would ever love me in return. He is beautiful and brilliant and talented, and I am — well, I am me.”

"You must woo him," Grantaire advised, himself well aware of the perils of being overly aware of one’s inadequacies. "Prove your worth to him."

"And how would I ever do that?" Joly asked, rubbing his temples. "Shall I try those trousers again?"

Bossuet shook his head. “Combeferre is a man of letters — you must woo him with words, not fancy trousers,” he said.

“But I am most definitely not a man of words,” Joly exclaimed. “As you well know, my friend, I suffer from a congestion of the head and of the mouth.”

His friends were silent for a moment, sipping their wine and pondering Joly’s situation, until Grantaire finally muttered, “Prouvaire.”

Bossuet smacked the table vigorously. “Yes, yes. Prouvaire is the perfect man to help you — I can think of no other member of Les Amis who would be better suited to that purpose. And we know he will not be put off by your — interests.”

"But it is not as if Prouvaire and I speak very much," Joly replied. "And I have not even seen him around here very much at all in recent days," he added, scanning the room for the young poet.

Grantaire nodded. “He has been spending his time at a local bookseller recently — you should try to find him there. Give me a piece of paper,” he asked Bossuet, who dug into his pockets and handed him an old receipt, upon which Grantaire scrawled an address. “You will find our young friend here,” he said, handing the paper to Joly.

Joly tucked it into his pocket without a word — and resolved to find Prouvaire as soon as he could.

**

Two days later Joly found himself prowling through the narrow back streets of a part of the city he did not know well, peering in the dim light at the crumpled piece of paper Grantaire had given to him. When he finally located the shop and went in, he immediately started coughing due to the thin layer of dust that blanketed everything.

"May I assist you?" an aged man — likely the owner — inquired.

"I—I am looking for—for—for a friend," Joly stammered, his eyes watering.

At that moment Prouvaire appeared from behind a row of shelves, holding a small volume in his hands. “Jolllly!” he exclaimed. “What brings you to my lovely hiding place?” he asked, grinning wildly. His clothes were rumpled, his tie was askew, and his curls were even more unruly than usual.

Joly coughed, feeling the dust crawling up his nose and wondering yet again why he was doing this. “I came—I came to find—to find you. I need—I need your assistance,” he finally blurted. “I need you to teach me poetry.”

Prouvaire crinkled his forehead. “I never took you as a lover of poetry, Joly. Why poetry? And why now?” he asked.

A flush rose up from Joly’s chest. “I wish to court someone who is a lover of words,” he muttered, not looking up.

"Oh, how lovely!" Prouvaire exclaimed. "Is it your grisette?"

Joly kept his gaze fixed on the floor. “No, no —we are no longer seeing each other. And my love—my love—” he looked around the store, then herded his friend to a spot behind the shelves where the bookseller would not see or hear them. “My love is a he,” he confided.

Prouvaire nodded and squeezed his hand. “It is as I always suspected, my fair Jolllly. Is this a he I know?” he asked hopefully.

Joly looked around furtively, then whispered, “It is Combeferre.”

Prouvaire’s blue eyes darkened for a brief moment, only to be quickly replaced by his sweet smile. “I see. You have chosen well, my dear Joly — Combeferre is a fine man. And I know exactly what you need to learn,” he said, turning to rummage on a nearby shelf. “Here,” he said, thrusting a large dusty volume at Joly. “This is everything you need.”

Joly sneezed at the cloud of dust, then turned it over to look at the cover. “Shakespeare? I thought Combeferre’s tastes would be more contemporary,” he said.

"Combeferre adores his work," Prouvaire replied. "As do I. But the way to his heart is in here," he said, tapping the book. "Plus you know he adores the theatre."

Joly thumbed through the book, trying not to wheeze as each page coughed up more dust. “I have no idea even where to begin.”

Prouvaire touched his arm. “I will help you. You will become both a scholar and a lover, and you will take Combeferre to the theatre, and Combeferre will fall at your feet like a lovelorn swain,” he said dramatically as Joly smiled. “Meet me at Corinthe tomorrow evening, and we will begin your lessons.”

**

They decided on a standing Wednesday engagement at Corinthe, where they would share a bottle of wine and a meal while discussing the reading assignments Prouvaire gave Joly. Prouvaire was a patient yet demanding teacher, insisting that he do more than memorize the words, but to also understand their meaning.

For his part, Joly was far more comfortable dissecting cadavers than he was dissecting verse, so it took time for him to get through even the shortest passage — he would read something that evening before by candlelight, unable to make heads or tails of it, but once he and Prouvaire began conversing, it would remarkably begin to make sense.

Prouvaire delighted in teasing him. “Combeferre would not be impressed,” he said after one botched recitation, clucking his tongue in disapproval.

Joly became flustered for a moment, but recovered quickly. “Let me try again,” he pleaded, knowing his sweet friend would allow it in a heartbeat.

Once the day’s lesson was complete, the conversation would drift to other topics — politics were always at the forefront of their conversations, but they would also talk of personal matters. Joly would tell tales of medical school, leaving out the most grotesque aspects, knowing Prouvaire was quite squeamish about such matters, while Prouvaire would talk about the linguistic work he was taking on, or about his own studies.

Sometimes Joly would persuade him to recite his own poems. When he began to recite in his mellifluous tenor, Joly would close his eyes and listen to the words just roll off Prouvaire’s tongue, losing himself in the beauty of the moment.

And it was a moment when the lessons — and Combeferre — were completely forgotten.

More and more often, when Joly was lying in his bed, willing sleep to come, he found his daydreams of a life with Combeferre replaced by thoughts of romantic interludes with Prouvaire.

And it left him even more confused than he was before.

**

"So I hear you are enjoying your lessons with the young poet," Grantaire asked him a few weeks later when they ran into each other at the bar at the Musain.

Joly’s face felt unexpectedly warm under Grantaire’s gaze. “Prouvaire is an excellent instructor,” was all he managed to say.

Grantaire guffawed. “I do not doubt it,” he said with a wink, as he poured himself some wine. “Just keep your eyes on the prize, my friend,” he advised, taking a sip from his glass.

"Whatever do you mean?" Joly asked warily, as he took the pitcher from his friend.

"I have heard rumors that your teacher would be interested in becoming your student," Grantaire said with a wry chuckle. "And not of poetry, either."

A look of surprise crossed Joly’s face. “He does?”

"I have been noticing how young Prouvaire looks at you of late — I have not seen him look at anyone like that since Courfeyrac started spending time with that Pontmercy character. And I would definitely know that look anywhere. Trust me," Grantaire confided with a self-effacing chuckle.

Joly touched his finger to his pulse point and noticed his heart was racing. “I did not encourage this,” he insisted. “Prouvaire knows my adoration is for Combeferre.”

"Joly," Grantaire said, squaring himself to face him. "If I am to tell the complete truth, I have also noticed a certain look in your eye as well — when Prouvaire enters the room, you light up the same way you do when you see Combeferre."

Joly’s eyes grew wide — and his stomach began to churn. “I do?”

Grantaire suppressed a grin. “It is certainly a muddle, is it not? Loving one man is difficult enough, I know. Two But you will sort it out, Joly — I believe in you,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder as he made his way over to his usual table.

Joly watched him go, his drink untouched in his hand — wishing he had a similar faith in himself.

And that night, his muddled dreams of dueling lovers kept him awake all night.

**

“I have a brilliant idea for somewhere you can take our dear Combeferre,” Prouvaire asked Joly as he arrived at their meeting the next day.

Joly rubbed his eyes, bleary from a lack of sleep. “You do?” he said as he took his usual seat opposite his friend.

“There is a troupe of English actors performing Romeo and Juliet at the Odeon Theatre,” Prouvaire said excitedly. “You should go together, and then demonstrate your new knowledge to him over a late supper, and then—” he trailed off, the implication clear to both men. “It is perfection.”

Joly hesitated. “I do not know, Prouvaire — I do not think I am prepared for this,” he said, shaking his head.

“You are more than prepared. You are wonderful,” he assured Joly, reaching over to his friend and stroking his cheek. Joly stared at him for a long moment — until Prouvaire pulled his hand away abruptly. “I apologize — I forget myself sometimes,” Prouvaire said, his face suddenly flushed.

“It is not a problem,” Joly said, searching Prouvaire’s face — and finding confirmation of Grantaire’s observations in his eyes. “But perhaps — perhaps you should come to the theatre with us,” he said impulsively.

Prouvaire shook his head. “That would be a terrible idea. You need to go yourself, and show Combeferre how wonderful you are, and all that you have studied to convince him of your love. He would be a fool not to want you, Jolllly,” he said softly.

“‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,’” Joly quoted.

Prouvaire beamed. “You are more than ready.”

**

On the day of the play, Joly was a bundle of nerves — he made sure to don the doeskin trousers, changed his cravat three times, and spent an inordinate amount of time deciding which cane he wanted to carry — but when he arrived at the theatre and saw Combeferre waiting for him, an enormous grin on his face, he relaxed immediately.

“Joly!” Combeferre called him over. “I do not need to tell you how excited I am for this,” he enthused, clasping his friend’s hand as they walked inside.

“I am as well,” Joly said, his heart thumping in his chest. “I have heard so much about this company’s performance of Hamlet, and I am looking forward to seeing what they do with Romeo and Juliet.”

Combeferre looked impressed. “I did not know you were an aficionado of the theatre,” he said.

“I have been learning,” Joly admitted. “Prouvaire has been tutoring me in Shakespeare.”

Combeferre squeezed his hand. “I can think of no better teacher — well, other than myself, of course,” he said, forsaking his usual modesty. “But why the sudden interest?”

Joly’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Perhaps I wanted for us to have a conversation that did not just focus on the dead, but on the living as well,” he said as they took their seats.

“‘Ignorance is the curse of God; knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,’” Combeferre said, his face radiating with joy as he leaned companionably against his friend. “You are remarkable,” he said as the curtain rose.

And Joly finally exhaled.

Perhaps this would be easier than he thought.

**

After the show, they adjourned for supper at a nearby cafe. As they ate and drank, they talked about the nuances of the performance, and the beauty of Shakespeare’s use of the English language — and Joly found that he had absorbed more of Prouvaire’s lessons than he had originally thought, parrying every one of Combeferre’s rhetorical thrusts with an eloquence even he did not know he possessed.

“Ah, if Prouvaire could see me right now,” Joly said as he leaned back in his chair, fully sated by wine and conversation.

Combeferre grew silent, a contemplative look on his face. “Do you wish he were here instead of me?” he finally asked.

“Why do you ask that?” Joly replied, a quaver creeping into his voice.

“I do believe his name has been mentioned in every sentence you have uttered this evening,” Combeferre said, not unkindly. “And every time you mention him, you get this particular look in your eyes. A look I have not seen since you and your grisette parted ways.”

“But—” Joly stammered. “I had hoped—I mean, I thought—I mean, the play, and the lessons, they were all for a reason—”

Combeferre put his hand over Joly’s. “Joly, you are like a brother to me. And brothers tell each other the truths they may not wish to hear. I am enormously flattered that you learned Shakespeare for me — but I do believe that in your quest, your heart was stolen by another.”

Joly swallowed hard — knowing as soon as the words were spoken that his wise friend was speaking the truth. “I am sorry, Combeferre,” he said, hanging his head contritely.

“I am not sorry,” Combeferre replied. “The whole affair enabled us to discuss something other than corpses for a change — and I do hope we can go to the theatre again. Perhaps you may want to bring young Prouvaire the next time,” he said with a smile.

Joly nodded vigorously. “I would like that,” he said, looking up and returning his friend’s smile.

Combeferre squeezed his hand. “Then go tell him that yourself.”

**

Joly went first to the Musain in search of Prouvaire — where he was informed by Grantaire that he had not been seen in three days. “I believe he has taken to his bed with an sickness,” Grantaire said.

Joly looked alarmed. “Is he very ill?” he asked.

Grantaire chuckled. “I do believe it is an illness only your healing hands can cure, my friend.”

Joly nodded and ran off, heading in the direction of Prouvaire’s rooms. As he made his way through the meandering streets, he tried to compose himself, rehearsing over and over what he would finally say to Prouvaire. As he dashed up the two flights of stairs to his tiny garret, he wondered if Prouvaire would forgive him for not realizing his feelings sooner.

Out of breath, and with his mind still racing, he tapped at Prouvaire’s door with a trembling hand. When Prouvaire answered the door in just his shirt, his eyes wide with surprise at seeing him there, Joly’s carefully composed declaration of love flew out of his mind as he instinctively fell to his knees.

And he began to recite.

“As an unperfect actor on the stage,  
“Who with his fear is put beside his part,  
“Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,  
“Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;  
“So I, for fear of trust, forget to say  
“The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,  
“And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,  
“O’ercharged with burthen of mine own love’s might.  
“O! let my looks be then the eloquence  
“And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,  
“Who plead for love, and look for recompense,  
“More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.  
“O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:  
“To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.”

As he finished reciting, he looked up at Prouvaire, who was watching him with tears welling up in his eyes. Joly rose to his feet and took him into his arms, stroking his back as the tears began to fall.

“I did not mean to make you cry,” Joly whispered. “I only wanted to show you all that I have learned from being with you. The poetry — and — and other things,” he said, planting a soft kiss on the top of Prouvaire’s curls.

“But I thought it was Combeferre that you loved,” Prouvaire said, his voice muffled by Joly’s jacket. “I did not believe you would ever love me, Jolllly.”

Joly lifted Prouvaire’s chin and kissed him softly and sweetly. “Believe it.”


End file.
